Dr.
Seward's Diary20 September - continued The funeral was arranged
for the next succeeding day, so that Lucy and her mother might be buried together.
I attended to all the ghastly formalities, and the urbane undertaker proved that
his staff was afflicted, or blessed, with something of his own obsequious suavity.
Even the woman who performed the last offices for the dead remarked to me, in
a confidential, brother-professional way, when she had come out from the death
chamber, "She makes a very beautiful corpse, sir. It's quite a privilege
to attend on her. It's not too much to say that she will do credit to our establishment!" I
noticed that Van Helsing never kept far away. This was possible from the disordered
state of things in the household. There were no relatives at hand, and as Arthur
had to be back the next day to attend at his father's funeral, we were unable
to notify any one who should have been bidden. Under the circumstances, Van Helsing
and I took it upon ourselves to examine papers, etc. He insisted upon looking
over Lucy's papers himself. I asked him why, for I feared that he, being a foreigner,
might not be quite aware of English legal requirements, and so might in ignorance
make some unnecessary trouble. He answered me, "I know, I know. You
forget that I am a lawyer as well as a doctor. But this is not altogether for
the law. You knew that, when you avoided the coroner. I have more than him to
avoid. There may be papers more, such as this." As he spoke he took
from his pocket book the memorandum which had been in Lucy's breast, and which
she had torn in her sleep. "When you find anything of the solicitor
who is for the late Mrs. Westenra, seal all her papers, and write him tonight.
For me, I watch here in the room and in Miss Lucy's old room all night, and I
myself search for what may be. It is not well that her very thoughts go into the
hands of strangers." I went on with my part of the work, and in another
half hour had found the name and address of Mrs. Westenra's solicitor and had
written to him. All the poor lady's papers were in order. Explicit directions
regarding the place of burial were given. I had hardly sealed the letter, when,
to my surprise, Van Helsing walked into the room, saying, "Can I help
you friend John? I am free, and if I may, my service is to you." "Have
you got what you looked for?" I asked. To which he replied, "I
did not look for any specific thing. I only hoped to find, and find I have, all
that there was, only some letters and a few memoranda, and a diary new begun.
But I have them here, and we shall for the present say nothing of them. I shall
see that poor lad tomorrow evening, and, with his sanction, I shall use some." When
we had finished the work in hand, he said to me, "And now, friend John, I
think we may to bed. We want sleep, both you and I, and rest to recuperate. Tomorrow
we shall have much to do, but for the tonight there is no need of us. Alas!" Before
turning in we went to look at poor Lucy. The undertaker had certainly done his
work well, for the room was turned into a small chapelle ardente. There was a
wilderness of beautiful white flowers, and death was made as little repulsive
as might be. The end of the winding sheet was laid over the face. When the Professor
bent over and turned it gently back, we both started at the beauty before us.
The tall wax candles showing a sufficient light to note it well. All Lucy's loveliness
had come back to her in death, and the hours that had passed, instead of leaving
traces of 'decay's effacing fingers', had but restored the beauty of life, till
positively I could not believe my eyes that I was looking at a corpse. The
Professor looked sternly grave. He had not loved her as I had, and there was no
need for tears in his eyes. He said to me, "Remain till I return," and
left the room. He came back with a handful of wild garlic from the box waiting
in the hall, but which had not been opened, and placed the flowers amongst the
others on and around the bed. Then he took from his neck, inside his collar, a
little gold crucifix, and placed it over the mouth. He restored the sheet to its
place, and we came away. I was undressing in my own room, when, with a premonitory
tap at the door, he entered, and at once began to speak. "Tomorrow
I want you to bring me, before night, a set of post-mortem knives." "Must
we make an autopsy?" I asked. "Yes and no. I want to operate,
but not what you think. Let me tell you now, but not a word to another. I want
to cut off her head and take out her heart. Ah! You a surgeon, and so shocked!
You, whom I have seen with no tremble of hand or heart, do operations of life
and death that make the rest shudder. Oh, but I must not forget, my dear friend
John, that you loved her, and I have not forgotten it for is I that shall operate,
and you must not help. I would like to do it tonight, but for Arthur I must not.
He will be free after his father's funeral tomorrow, and he will want to see her,
to see it. Then, when she is coffined ready for the next day, you and I shall
come when all sleep. We shall unscrew the coffin lid, and shall do our operation,
and then replace all, so that none know, save we alone." "But
why do it at all? The girl is dead. Why mutilate her poor body without need? And
if there is no necessity for a post-mortem and nothing to gain by it, no good
to her, to us, to science, to human knowledge, why do it? Without such it is monstrous." For
answer he put his hand on my shoulder, and said, with infinite tenderness, "Friend
John, I pity your poor bleeding heart, and I love you the more because it does
so bleed. If I could, I would take on myself the burden that you do bear. But
there are things that you know not, but that you shall know, and bless me for
knowing, though they are not pleasant things. John, my child, you have been my
friend now many years, and yet did you ever know me to do any without good cause?
I may err, I am but man, but I believe in all I do. Was it not for these causes
that you send for me when the great trouble came? Yes! Were you not amazed, nay
horrified, when I would not let Arthur kiss his love, though she was dying, and
snatched him away by all my strength? Yes! And yet you saw how she thanked me,
with her so beautiful dying eyes, her voice, too, so weak, and she kiss my rough
old hand and bless me? Yes! And did you not hear me swear promise to her, that
so she closed her eyes grateful? Yes! "Well, I have good reason now
for all I want to do. You have for many years trust me. You have believe me weeks
past, when there be things so strange that you might have well doubt. Believe
me yet a little, friend John. If you trust me not, then I must tell what I think,
and that is not perhaps well. And if I work, as work I shall, no matter trust
or no trust, without my friend trust in me, I work with heavy heart and feel oh
so lonely when I want all help and courage that may be!" He paused a moment
and went on solemnly, "Friend John, there are strange and terrible days before
us. Let us not be two, but one, that so we work to a good end. Will you not have
faith in me?" I took his hand, and promised him. I held my door open
as he went away, and watched him go to his room and close the door. As I stood
without moving, I saw one of the maids pass silently along the passage, she had
her back to me, so did not see me, and go into the room where Lucy lay. The sight
touched me. Devotion is so rare, and we are so grateful to those who show it unasked
to those we love. Here was a poor girl putting aside the terrors which she naturally
had of death to go watch alone by the bier of the mistress whom she loved, so
that the poor clay might not be lonely till laid to eternal rest. I must
have slept long and soundly, for it was broad daylight when Van Helsing waked
me by coming into my room. He came over to my bedside and said, "You need
not trouble about the knives. We shall not do it." "Why not?"
I asked. For his solemnity of the night before had greatly impressed me. "Because,"
he said sternly, "it is too late, or too early. See!" Here he held up
the little golden crucifix. "This was stolen in the night." "How
stolen," I asked in wonder, "since you have it now?" "Because
I get it back from the worthless wretch who stole it, from the woman who robbed
the dead and the living. Her punishment will surely come, but not through me.
She knew not altogether what she did, and thus unknowing, she only stole. Now
we must wait." He went away on the word, leaving me with a new mystery to
think of, a new puzzle to grapple with. The forenoon was a dreary time,
but at noon the solicitor came, Mr. Marquand, of Wholeman, Sons, Marquand &
Lidderdale. He was very genial and very appreciative of what we had done, and
took off our hands all cares as to details. During lunch he told us that Mrs.
Westenra had for some time expected sudden death from her heart, and had put her
affairs in absolute order. He informed us that, with the exception of a certain
entailed property of Lucy's father which now, in default of direct issue, went
back to a distant branch of the family, the whole estate, real and personal, was
left absolutely to Arthur Holmwood. When he had told us so much he went on, "Frankly
we did our best to prevent such a testamentary disposition, and pointed out certain
contingencies that might leave her daughter either penniless or not so free as
she should be to act regarding a matrimonial alliance. Indeed, we pressed the
matter so far that we almost came into collision, for she asked us if we were
or were not prepared to carry out her wishes. Of course, we had then no alternative
but to accept. We were right in principle, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred
we should have proved, by the logic of events, the accuracy of our judgment. "Frankly,
however, I must admit that in this case any other form of disposition would have
rendered impossible the carrying out of her wishes. For by her predeceasing her
daughter the latter would have come into possession of the property, and, even
had she only survived her mother by five minutes, her property would, in case
there were no will, and a will was a practical impossibility in such a case, have
been treated at her decease as under intestacy. In which case Lord Godalming,
though so dear a friend, would have had no claim in the world. And the inheritors,
being remote, would not be likely to abandon their just rights, for sentimental
reasons regarding an entire stranger. I assure you, my dear sirs, I am rejoiced
at the result, perfectly rejoiced." He was a good fellow, but his rejoicing
at the one little part, in which he was officially interested, of so great a tragedy,
was an object-lesson in the limitations of sympathetic understanding. He
did not remain long, but said he would look in later in the day and see Lord Godalming.
His coming, however, had been a certain comfort to us, since it assured us that
we should not have to dread hostile criticism as to any of our acts. Arthur was
expected at five o'clock, so a little before that time we visited the death chamber.
It was so in very truth, for now both mother and daughter lay in it. The undertaker,
true to his craft, had made the best display he could of his goods, and there
was a mortuary air about the place that lowered our spirits at once. Van
Helsing ordered the former arrangement to be adhered to, explaining that, as Lord
Godalming was coming very soon, it would be less harrowing to his feelings to
see all that was left of his fiancee quite alone. The undertaker seemed
shocked at his own stupidity and exerted himself to restore things to the condition
in which we left them the night before, so that when Arthur came such shocks to
his feelings as we could avoid were saved. Poor fellow! He looked desperately
sad and broken. Even his stalwart manhood seemed to have shrunk somewhat under
the strain of his much-tried emotions. He had, I knew, been very genuinely and
devotedly attached to his father, and to lose him, and at such a time, was a bitter
blow to him. With me he was warm as ever, and to Van Helsing he was sweetly courteous.
But I could not help seeing that there was some constraint with him. The professor
noticed it too, and motioned me to bring him upstairs. I did so, and left him
at the door of the room, as I felt he would like to be quite alone with her, but
he took my arm and led me in, saying huskily, "You loved her too, old
fellow. She told me all about it, and there was no friend had a closer place in
her heart than you. I don't know how to thank you for all you have done for her.
I can't think yet . . ." Here he suddenly broke down, and threw his
arms round my shoulders and laid his head on my breast, crying, "Oh, Jack!
Jack! What shall I do? The whole of life seems gone from me all at once, and there
is nothing in the wide world for me to live for." I comforted him as
well as I could. In such cases men do not need much expression. A grip of the
hand, the tightening of an arm over the shoulder, a sob in unison, are expressions
of sympathy dear to a man's heart. I stood still and silent till his sobs died
away, and then I said softly to him, "Come and look at her." Together
we moved over to the bed, and I lifted the lawn from her face. God! How beautiful
she was. Every hour seemed to be enhancing her loveliness. It frightened and amazed
me somewhat. And as for Arthur, he fell to trembling, and finally was shaken with
doubt as with an ague. At last, after a long pause, he said to me in a faint whisper,
"Jack, is she really dead?" I assured him sadly that it was so,
and went on to suggest, for I felt that such a horrible doubt should not have
life for a moment longer than I could help, that it often happened that after
death faces become softened and even resolved into their youthful beauty, that
this was especially so when death had been preceded by any acute or prolonged
suffering. I seemed to quite do away with any doubt, and after kneeling beside
the couch for a while and looking at her lovingly and long, he turned aside. I
told him that that must be goodbye, as the coffin had to be prepared, so he went
back and took her dead hand in his and kissed it, and bent over and kissed her
forehead. He came away, fondly looking back over his shoulder at her as he came. I
left him in the drawing room, and told Van Helsing that he had said goodbye, so
the latter went to the kitchen to tell the undertaker's men to proceed with the
preparations and to screw up the coffin. When he came out of the room again I
told him of Arthur's question, and he replied, "I am not surprised. Just
now I doubted for a moment myself!" We all dined together, and I could
see that poor Art was trying to make the best of things. Van Helsing had been
silent all dinner time, but when we had lit our cigars he said, "Lord . .
." but Arthur interrupted him. "No, no, not that, for God's sake!
Not yet at any rate. Forgive me, sir. I did not mean to speak offensively. It
is only because my loss is so recent." The Professor answered very
sweetly, "I only used that name because I was in doubt. I must not call you
'Mr.' and I have grown to love you, yes, my dear boy, to love you, as Arthur." Arthur
held out his hand, and took the old man's warmly. "Call me what you will,"
he said. "I hope I may always have the title of a friend. And let me say
that I am at a loss for words to thank you for your goodness to my poor dear."
He paused a moment, and went on, "I know that she understood your goodness
even better than I do. And if I was rude or in any way wanting at that time you
acted so, you remember"--the Professor nodded--"you must forgive me." He
answered with a grave kindness, "I know it was hard for you to quite trust
me then, for to trust such violence needs to understand, and I take it that you
do not, that you cannot, trust me now, for you do not yet understand. And there
may be more times when I shall want you to trust when you cannot, and may not,
and must not yet understand. But the time will come when your trust shall be whole
and complete in me, and when you shall understand as though the sunlight himself
shone through. Then you shall bless me from first to last for your own sake, and
for the sake of others, and for her dear sake to whom I swore to protect." "And
indeed, indeed, sir," said Arthur warmly. "I shall in all ways trust
you. I know and believe you have a very noble heart, and you are Jack's friend,
and you were hers. You shall do what you like." The Professor cleared
his throat a couple of times, as though about to speak, and finally said, "May
I ask you something now?" "Certainly." "You know
that Mrs. Westenra left you all her property?" "No, poor dear.
I never thought of it." "And as it is all yours, you have a right
to deal with it as you will. I want you to give me permission to read all Miss
Lucy's papers and letters. Believe me, it is no idle curiosity. I have a motive
of which, be sure, she would have approved. I have them all here. I took them
before we knew that all was yours, so that no strange hand might touch them, no
strange eye look through words into her soul. I shall keep them, if I may. Even
you may not see them yet, but I shall keep them safe. No word shall be lost, and
in the good time I shall give them back to you. It is a hard thing that I ask,
but you will do it, will you not, for Lucy's sake?" Arthur spoke out
heartily, like his old self, "Dr. Van Helsing, you may do what you will.
I feel that in saying this I am doing what my dear one would have approved. I
shall not trouble you with questions till the time comes." The old
Professor stood up as he said solemnly, "And you are right. There will be
pain for us all, but it will not be all pain, nor will this pain be the last.
We and you too, you most of all, dear boy, will have to pass through the bitter
water before we reach the sweet. But we must be brave of heart and unselfish,
and do our duty, and all will be well!" I slept on a sofa in Arthur's
room that night. Van Helsing did not go to bed at all. He went to and fro, as
if patroling the house, and was never out of sight of the room where Lucy lay
in her coffin, strewn with the wild garlic flowers, which sent through the odour
of lily and rose, a heavy, overpowering smell into the night. |
